


One-way

by scattergun



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scattergun/pseuds/scattergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random noise. Apophenia and wrong turns.<br/>Things wanted and things unwanted and not coping well with either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-way

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit welcome. Warnings in the tags.

You stab yourself with one of the kitchen shuriken like a fucking idiot.

It's not like you didn't know they were there. But you wanted a PB&J and also wanted to keep texting Rose. Her mom had gotten her some new weird wizard shit and she was sending you pics, each more bizarre than the last- half of comedy is timing and no way were you gonna miss these opportunities. No time for trivial shit like making sure that brushing shuriken aside doesn't get one caught between the edge of the sink and your lower arm holy SHIT.

Pain. Reflex has you grab your arm and the flat of the shuriken even as a loud gasp tears out of you. It's sunk partway in and blood is already perfusing downwards over the skin of your arm and the hand holding it steady. Your teeth are clenched and you hear yourself hissing. Distantly, your phone clatters off the counter.

You make yourself take a deep- a half-breath, at least. Then you cuss, very aware of the shape of the pain past the initial shock. God.

Blood keeps dripping onto the floor and, belatedly, you take a move forwards to get your arm over the sink. The flat of the shuriken is aligned with the flat of your hand, closer to the elbow than not, and not deep enough to have hit anything important. Safe to remove. You take a breath, bracing yourself.

You carefully grip the flats with your thumb and forefinger and pull, slowly. Even lubricated with blood it feels like it's hitting every nerve on the way. You're hissing with pain again and you can't fucking see right 'cuz your eyes are watering and a "ghhk" leaves your throat but finally the last spoke is free. You let it clatter down into the sink, immediately putting pressure on the wound with your hand again, cradling it.

Where's-? But you hardly finish the thought before you get a sense of it. Of course, he's- you turn around-

Bro stands a short distance behind you, leaning against the fridge, somehow managing to look casual. He must've been watching; god knows he could've flashstepped out here about as soon as you'd hurt yourself. You try to blink away the wetness in your eyes you're suddenly aware of.

"Your arm," he orders, and you present it to him.

"Did alright," he says. It's always some kind of test with him, but... It doesn't sound as harsh, somehow. "Could be worse. Keep holding it like that."

He turns back towards the fridge, pulling off of the makeshift shelf of the ice dispenser a neat stack consisting of your phone, a gauze pad, and tape. You glance back towards the counter, stupidly, before realizing you'd knocked your phone off it and never heard it hit the floor. You'd wonder how he got the first aid supplies as well if there was any point. It's obviously some combination of preparedness and speed, one that shouldn't unnerve you anymore.

You blink hard again 'cuz your eyes won't stop welling up. You try to suppress the mental flinch away from the pain. Make your brain understand that, yes, you're paying attention and yes it's maneageable and not that bad, really. Useful trick. Still hurts though.

Bro reaches for your wrist and you let him take it. He's got the cloth in his other hand- set the rest of the stuff down on the counter while you were distracted. You ease up your grip on the wound, and he sets the pad over the punctures for you to grab onto again. Your fingers brush against each other. It registers how his grip on your wrist holding your arm steady is firm, but different from how he'd grab you if you were strifing. Gentle? You withdraw your arm, something hot like embarrassment in your throat. It occurs to you that you should say something.

"Thanks," you peep, voice a bit shaky with pain. Fuck. You clear your throat belatedly.

"Mm," he acknowledges. "Keep the pressure on until it stops bleeding. Then," -and he nods towards the tape on the counter, "I'll tape it up for you."

"I'm fine," you blurt, still self-conscious. He looks at you. You think of his hand on the tender underside of your wrist. "I can... I'll do it up myself."

A pause. You're not sure if there's a tension in the air or if it's just you.

He nods. "Aight." Another pause you think you didn't imagine. He reaches out and you barely stop yourself from flinching. His hand scuffs twice over your shoulder. Reassuring-like. When was the last time-?

 _No_ , Jesus, get ahold of yourself. You try to relax your body language. "Uhh." Stupid. But he just inclines his head and disappears.

You try to get your bearings. Exhale. Lean back against the counter. No, you feel exposed here. You awkwardly grab the tape and your phone, go to the bathroom, and lock the door behind you. Slide down and sprawl on the floor a little, whatever.

You don't know why you're so strung up. It would've been better if you'd left it at that but it's not like you especially want to get up and bandage your arm already, so the thought sticks. Why the fuck Bro offering to help, or just talking to you, or touching your arm... Why the fuck that'd make you feel like your skin doesn't fit.

Maybe it's something about how you spend most of your time in your room talking to John and Rose and Jade, and how whenever you see Bro it's usually just exchanged nods or a question about takeout or him telling you to meet him on the roof. Maybe something about how it's been ages since you've been enough of a dumbfuck to get anything more serious than scrapes and bruises in your strifes. So you can't remember the last time you've exchanged more than two words, the last time he's been more than some sort of-  _automaton_ to you.

And so he shows just a hint of maybe giving the most cursory fuck and you flip right off the rails- because you haven't been thinking of him as a real person, and isn't that messed up? Even if you do have feelings about him, right, of course: he's your brother. He raised you. He must have, uh, held you, as a kid? Parental stuff. Helped you get dressed and tied your shoes. Which feels... embarrassing, maybe. Some brat getting snot all over his shirt, no wonder he... You dunno. Your arm hurts and maybe your head is jumbled. The idea of your bro being a person is so obvious you almost feel like laughing. Instead the feeling sits in your gut, some sort of roiling unease.

Be real: You hide in your room all day. You pulled away from even letting him bandage your arm. What if every weird idea you had about him and your relationship is just him _giving you space_?

Which isn't bad exactly, you're fine with how things are (you're fine, you're _fine_ )- but maybe things could be different which never really occurred to you. Closer or more hands-on, more like stuff you'd dismissed as cliche. Like John and his dad, you think, and- some part of your brain prods you with the tactile sense-imagining of Bro wrapping you in a hug-

Motherfucker. Your breath catches on phelgm and you choke and cough, jarring your arm. You motherfucker. You let your head fall back against the door with a hard 'thunk'. Pull yourself together already.

You've got to remember that you don't know anything yet. It was a two-minute interaction and god knows that if John's movies have taught you one thing it's that idiot dramas are based on misunderstandings. Bro's your bro, not your dad, and you need to chill about whether he's gonna tuck you in and read you a bedtime story, or whatever bullshit your subconscious will cook up. Probably the pain from your arm's got you addled and you press your thumb into it, hard, like that's not a contradiction.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days your understanding solidifies: shit didn't matter. He showed some side you weren't expecting, but what does that change? Your brain keeps thinking about him patting your shoulder but you just have to strife better, and...

That's really not a bad idea actually.

You don't know why your head keeps filling up with stuff you don't need and stuff you wouldn't do, stuff that'd fuck up what your hindbrain fails to appreciate: a chill kinship. Freedom. You know what lines not to cross, and he lets you do what you want within them. No nagging parentals and no guilt trip drama. Fuck up bad enough, maybe he'll rough you up strifing, and that's the end of it.

So when your head fills up with-

(physical affection, him hugging you just because you felt like it, curling up on the couch and watching a movie and being comforted by his presence)

- _stuff_ , that's how you know it's pointless. Fake. You don't really want that.

But if you just did better strifing, maybe he'd... Not compliment you, exactly, but give you that sort of look and nod that you (and maybe only you) understand the meaning of.

You hadn't been slacking off, exactly, but you know what he expects of you, and you didn't push yourself further. This is your subconscious trying to tell you to do better.

 

* * *

 

Bro doesn't have a set routine, but you feel like you see even less of him than usual, though there are signs of his presence. Food appears in the fridge, or sometimes money on the counter, so you can order some yourself. You hear the shower run now and again.

Which sounds a lot like business as usual, but you'd swear you'd normally at least see him in passing by now, and it's been a while since you've last strifed. Maybe he's letting your arm heal up. Or maybe he's giving you space; even more than before, because he thinks you're some delicate flower who runs away from basic contact? But no, you think he'd have the decency to knock something that stupid out of you.

So he's probably been busy. Normally you keep in decent enough shape just strifing, but with this gap he might expect you to get sloppy. 'Course, you can't push yourself too hard, never knowing when he's gonna wanna go, but you can do enough to keep from backsliding. Physically, there's not much more to do. You can't improve that much without more time.

But maybe you can try to be smarter. You write down what you remember of the different ways he's kicked your ass over the past month, looking for a theme. Wishful thinking, you guess, since you don't find one. But you can at least review your notes, try to make the stuff you did learn stick.

 

* * *

 

Kitchen, 8pm.

Lil Cal lurks at the corners of your vision, as he's been tending to lately.

Not to hate, because obviously Lil Cal is cool, and puppets are great, and it isn't creepy at all. But if it's Bro checking up on you, with Lil Cal being a courtesy heads-up...

A part of you wonders if maybe he does think you're delicate or something, but you've got to be reasonable. Maybe he's busy enough to hole up with his projects and eat at weird hours. And you know how fast he is, maybe you ever catching sight of him at all is just for show... Or is that you thinking of him as a weird automaton again? Yeah, actually. Why are you making it like that when the most important thing about him checking up on you is that he-

cares? Probably?

You're going to fucking barf.

Also you've been staring at the countertop for a solid minute, so you better hope that Bro stopped watching before that.

Turn around to where you last saw Lil' Cal. You see a note on the table.

Familiar words. _Strife. Roof. Now._

 

* * *

 

Sometimes he wants you to learn how to fight when outclassed, or wants to punish a particularly stupid mistake of yours, and moves a lot faster than this. Compared to that, this is glacial.

Few of the swords he's had you fight with weigh more than a few pounds, but at the end of long sessions your arms shake and his don't. He could maneuver you into positions that make his strength advantage really count. He doesn't.

This much you've figured out: He's faster and stronger than you, but more than that, he's just the better swordsman.

You'd wanted to show him that you cared about this, but whatever chance you thought you had is slipping away. You're doing even worse than last time.

Sweat drips down your neck while Bro, a few paces away, doesn't even look winded. You grit your teeth and tighten your grip, then loosen it before it makes you fuck up.

Can't get sloppy now, but how are you supposed to-?

He swings and you parry, catching it on the flat of the blade.

He frowns. "Counter," he says, simply, and you know, you know for god's sake that you need to be more fluid, deflecting and aggressing all at once. But saying that tells him nothing and so you nod, mouth drawn thin.

A few more fruitless back-and-forths. Frustrated, you overextend, and he uses your own movement to send you sprawling onto your hands and knees.

Sometimes he pushes you viciously hard, past your limits, like it really is life or death- but that'd be counterproductive to do all the time. This isn't that kind of strife, so he should expect you to stay down, both of you knowing you've lost.

But your sword is right by your hand, still, and if you get the drop on him, then maybe...

He takes a step forward, probably preparing to lecture you, and you twist, and leap forward-

Too close to dodge or parry properly, he steps into your attack instead, a hand each on his sword's hilt and blade. There's a split second where you see it coming, but without the leverage to cancel your momentum-

_WHUMPH_

-the length of his sword takes you hard in the chest and you're knocked onto your back. Instinctively, you suck in a breath, but nothing happens. Without even thinking about it you try again to inhale and the only result is a choked noise. Don't panic. You try again but you can't get any air and you need to not panic but your instincts are screaming that it's breathe or die and you can't breathe.

"Hey, you're alright. You're fine." A hand on you. Bro guiding you to sit up and speaking firmly but gently."Just got the wind knocked out of you. Easy now."

You can't reply, only make short pathetic gasps. You try to curl in on yourself but Bro stops you.

"Passes easier if you sit up straight, there, like that." His hand stays on your back, rubbing circles. Fuck. You still can't speak but it's not as bad, now, and amid your sad-sack attempts to breathe you have the presence of mind to realize how stupid this is.

It should've been badass-stoic to not give up until you're physically unable to go on. Instead there's this, not even a real injury, just some quirk of biology taking time out of its day to fuck you over.

You try and fail to take a deeper breath than the half-lungfuls you were starting to get and almost panic again, and wouldn't that be just the thing, and doesn't it almost feel like sobbing but also, fuck off, because if you start thinking stuff like that you really are going to- fuck off.

You stare at a point on the ground and focus on breathing. Bro stopped speaking when it seems you'd stopped panicking and it's relatively quiet. You're starting to catch your breath and wonder what you can say or do that isn't stilted to hell. Plan 'wave jauntily, moonwalk away' is leading, but only in the way that lemmings lead each other off cliffs.

Bro breaks the silence and your train of thought. It takes a second to register.

"Take off your shirt." What.

"What."

"To check for broken ribs."

"Oh." A second for your brain to reboot. "Well. I'm good, see." You try to demonstrate with a deep inhale before it cuts off at the end. One last hurrah for your body's dickishness.

Bro looks like he's thinking and that makes you think about having to strip and him prodding you, touching you, looking at you. You can feel your face grow hot from imagined humiliation. You grit your teeth together.

"Look, I know you want to play doctor and all but I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, or a whole string-damn-quartet," you snap.

"...Play doctor, huh," he says neutrally.

You splutter. "Play doctor- play at being a doctor- shit's _synonymous-_ -" His mouth took on an amused tilt somewhere and you've got to stop being baited so easily. "-for fuck's sake." You try for 'faintly exasperated' instead of 'take me out behind the shed'.

He makes some kind of noise like agreement, and that's that. He stands and extends his hand for you to get up with as well. He nods at you and leaves. You don't follow.

 

* * *

 

This whole- _situation of awkwardness_ had been on your mind before the strife, sure. But after your initial mental scrabbling you guess you'd convinced yourself it was salvageable. Like a good, wholesome strife would put things into perspective and make your awful weirdness blow over.

What a joke. A massive joke. Joke so big you could drive an SUV through it. Joke so large they had to build a specialized holding facility in Nevada. On a scale of one to ten this joke rates a solid "you", because you're a joke.

You need a distraction.

If you talk to Rose... You can already feel her picking you apart. If there was more maybe it'd be fine, but from a bird's eye view? It's petty. Bizarre, nebulous bullshit.

John and Jade are better. Part of you feels like it's hollow but the ashes in your mouth fade after a bit.

Then Rose figures you're avoiding her and asks John about you. John lets you know you and in response you might've been a bit fucking curt with him. Apparently. And apparently he tells Jade, who brings it up with you, but nothing's wrong with you so you have nothing to say, see? She's sincere and well-meaning and then disappointed. You'd be disappointed in you too if you were that much of a jerk, except you really were that much of a jerk. Better for everyone if you disappear for a while.

You drift from blog to blog and trawl wikipedia. You try to start on a SBAHJ strip but you've got nothing. You go stand in front of your turntables but you aren't feeling that, either.

Sometimes your chest hurts and you can't breathe right, like maybe you did break a rib. You almost make yourself sick wondering until you realize the ache should be more localized and constant.

So... you don't know what it is. But just staying in bed helps.

You start to spend a lot of time sleeping.

 

* * *

 

Even if the weirdness between you is all on you, or imagined, you can't stand yourself enough to fix it, and so you lie low, staying in your room. You'd be there now, too, if you didn't have to eat. Hunger is something you deal with easily but experience tells you not to put it off. You've got a half thing of crackers in your room, but if you want to wait until Bro's out of the house to hit the kitchen... Well, there's a good chance you're gonna have to fight nausea and weakness to do it. Not fun.

It's late, dead late, and you're feeling shit, maybe half-dead yourself, and acting like some unironic spy-movie-wannabe cramps your style. But if you want to avoid him it's this or nothing.

It wouldn't be an issue if he wasn't a cheapskate about rent and you had your own separate rooms. Then you remember that he would have his own room if he wasn't housing you. Man up.

You open the door, slowly, to avoid creaking. There's a dark shape on the unfolded futon- so far so good. You make your way to the cupboards under the kitchen counter. Less chance of swords clattering out than the fridge, and you think you remember there being some sandwich supplies.-

You're crouching down looking into the back of shelves when a creaking noise behind you almost makes you jump. You recognize it before you turn around, though: it's Bro's futon. You're unlucky. He's sitting up, facing you with his feet on the floor, pretty obviously awake. Wifebeater, boxers, shades, no hat. At this point you're more surprised he didn't conjure up his hat than that he put his shades on first thing in the middle of the night.

You mumble a greeting, hey sorry I woke you up im just getting a snack. You make yourself look busy investigating the shelves. He doesn't say anything, so maybe that's it. You dig out the last remains of a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. There's half a pizza box in your room that'll serve as a plate, but your chances of finding a knife are slim.

Man... You turn a couple of degrees in his direction. "Can I butter this with a- " you struggle to remember the word- "one of those baby sickles." You don't remember the word.

"Kama. And yes."

You pull the kama down from the wall. This is stupid. Maybe in the hilarious ironic way but you're not really in the mood. You wonder if he expected you to remember the word 'kama'.

"I'd been meaning to talk to you, actually," he says. You almost drop it before overcompensating and putting it down very slowly, still facing the counter.

"Meaning to talk to me as in 'what should we eat for dinner tomorrow' or as in 'this is a daytime sitcom and I'm breaking up with you, Janet'?" You try to keep it light but maybe something bitter bleeds through. You wince.

"...You've been acting mighty strange, lately." He pauses again, maybe to let you make a witty comment about his phrasing and then explain yourself, lighthearted. But your mouth is dry and your heart is thundering.

"You avoid me, and don't like being touched. Why?"

It's... bad that he noticed that. Really bad. But if it's only that then maybe you can find a way to get out of this?

Think fast. "That's... pretty normal for a teen, actually," you start. "You know. Independence and all that. And, actually I'm working on a mix-" stop stop stop before you start rambling hysterically- "and, y'know... stuff." Nice.

Bro exhales, and you glance over your shoulder a split second to see him run a hand through his hair, not entirely looking at you.

"Kid- Dave. If somebody hurt you..." Wait, what? You almost feel like laughing.

"Uh- haha- no, no. Nobody... Nothing like that." You pick up the kama again, a token effort at continuing sandwich assemblage. You dismissed his fears, ding ding, you win. Maybe he'll just turn over and go back to sleep.

You expect him to just say he's glad and leave it at that but if anything his next words sound more intent.

"Alright. That said," and your lifted spirits start to fall, "you're skittish, almost _shy_ , ever since I touched your arm and ruffled your hair. For God's sake." You think you stop breathing.

"I'd almost say you had a crush," he finishes.

You choke. "No- just... no. Of course not."

"Oh?" Almost lazily, like a cat circling the canary. "How would you explain it, then?"

You can't answer that, and he takes your silence as reason to continue. "Making jokes about breaking up and playing doctor. _Blushing_."

It's not like you can tell the truth. Try to deflect.

"You can't just- bait me that easily, anyways." Words coming slowly, then in a rush, "If you really thought that, you wouldn't just casually ask me about it."

"Wouldn't I." he says, tonelessly quirking an eyebrow. Unamused, like you'd called him childish or a coward, and, fuck, how does something like that even matter right now, when he's treating seriously or pretending to treat seriously the kind of thing that would tear whatever you have to shreds? You feel- exhausted. So fucking exhausted, just-

"Stop-  _stop fucking with me_." your words practically echo in the quiet of the room. Tick, tock. It occurs to you that if he thought there was going to be an issue he probably would treat it more seriously. Shame floods in. Let him know how you're some kind of person who hates ambiguity. Let him know you replaced the real Dave in the crib because that's how unable you are to be a normal fucking person. Like you're some kind of... reverse, wimpy Superman whose kryptonite is hypotheticals.

You turn halfway to look at him but this time his gaze catches yours and you can't just turn away without making it worse.

He doesn't look disapproving, or perplexed, or whatever the fuck you'd expected. Just subjects you to long seconds of the same measuring look. Say something. Say something. But instead he stands up to walk towards you.

An animal part of your brain says he's going to hurt you. You freeze. He places his hands on each side of the counter, boxing you in; cornering you.

The distance between you is intimate, and he lowers his voice to match. "Is this what you want, then," he asks/doesn't ask.

He waits for you to respond but that you even let it go this far means your reasons have to be good and you have nothing.

He leans forward, body incidentally meeting yours as a hand in your hair guides your head back. He kisses you, off-center, dry lips pressing against the corner of your mouth. You do nothing.

When you fail to push him away he does it again. Things are starting to dawn on you and you feel vertigo, like the ground lurches beneath you. You shudder, and might've stumbled, but Bro leans further into you so you keep your footing.

"Weak in the knees, huh?"

Your mouth opens and closes. "You. You want... this. Me?"

His face turns serious. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

You understand him perfectly, for once. To him, to you, it's straightforward, sincere, and your heart pangs with gratitude. But there were a dozen points where you could've said no already and you ignored every one.

There's still no reason for any of the awkward stuff you pulled, and if there's no reason, what would telling him do? No reasons means nothing can be fixed. Maybe bro would try, methodically, and eventually be confronted with that you can't change because, y'know, there's something wrong with you.

You think he'll try and because you're fucked up it'll feel good to have him pay attention to you. And you think that when it dawns on him who you actually are it'd be that much worse.

So that's your other option. Having him actually see.

This situation is bad but the alternative is worse. This is bad but it's not...

You dunno how long you were lost in thought but he's being patient with you.

Speak around the lump in your throat. "I." Fist your shaking hands in the fabric of his shirt. "It's-" _fine_ , you want to say, but you can't and it might not even be enough to be convincing.

"Please," you say instead, and his eyes turn hungry.

His body pins yours firmly and your head is tugged back by his hand in your hair. His mouth meets yours again, still slow and deliberate, but... Insistent, too, if you're not imagining things. He settles his other hand on your jaw, encouraging. You exhale a little, letting your mouth open, and he lightly sucks on your lower lip. You didn't know that was a thing you could do. You haven't been kissed by anyone before.

It's not bad and it's not good. You're not sure how to feel and it's messing with your head. Playacting to yourself that your bad feelings are all just embarassment at how incompetent you are is more useful. You pull back to break the suction on your lip, then clumsily push your mouth against his, tongue darting out- acting convincing upfront while you have it in you. He meets you, then runs his tongue over yours, and, fuck, you made an embarrassing small noise because it's _sensitive_. He strokes at the roof of your mouth and you suppress a ticklish shiver. Repulsive. You shut your eyes and try to pretend it's someone else, anyone else, but it just makes you more aware that if you did kiss someone else this will be what you remember.

You try focusing just on the sensations instead. Warmth and wetness, tongue on tongue, the way another mouth feels. Sometimes you like it, but you're disgusting, and you asked for it, and that means you deserve it, so it's only fair you make yourself sick.

You settle into a rhythm with him. Slow, deep kisses. The height difference stays awkward, so you uneasily wrap your arms around his neck, and he presses a leg between your thighs. The only comfortable way to stand is to mold your body forward against his, craning your neck back yourself with his hand supporting more than guiding. Even then, your bodyweight rests partly on him, and the small movements of kissing grind your crotch against his leg.

He pulls back, and you realize your admiral's been poking him, half-mast, and you're drooling a little. Bright red, you wipe your mouth against your shirt.

"Let me fuck you," he says. It's not worded like a question but if he didn't mean for it to be your choice he wouldn't have said it at all. Your gut wrenches with warring gratitude and grief.

If you'd known what he wanted from the start, maybe things wouldn't have gone so far. It feels like a cruel trick. Like you were led into a trap.

But if that were true, if he didn't care if you wanted it, why would he keep asking you? No. You assumed he thought like you and he assumed you thought like him. Facades polished into mirrors.

He actually wants to do right by you, and you're not going to let him.

"Yes," you intone, but it's unconvincing to your ears, too robotic. "Please," you add in a murmur. Guilty and shy sound pretty similar.

He smirks at you, then... walks back over to the futon, sweeps the blanket further aside, and sits down, cross-legged. Some part of you was expecting Prince Charming bridal carry, you guess, as disturbing as that is. You push the thought aside and follow his lead, sitting down across from him.

He pulls his wifebeater over his head. It makes his muscles move, rippling in a way yours don't, like something out of a Twilight movie. He catches your stare and you look away, then back, defying yourself. Not like there was something else you were supposed to look at.

Your turn, he says.

Determined not to overthink it, you wrangle your shirt off and throw it to the side. It takes conscious effort, but you keep your body language open.

Maybe you should take your boxers off too. Bro hasn't, but if you never take the initiative he'll suspect something, and if you can't do this what can you do? But logistically, either you'd have to wiggle out of them awkwardly, or move back over to the edge of the futon and hang your legs over the side, but that just feels like being shy about it, which shoots the whole idea in the foot. Standing up and bending all the way over is too stupid to even consider.

You're too slow. Bro takes hold of your shoulder, guiding you back into a prone position. He hooks the waistband of your boxers and starts drawing them down.

It's out of your hands now, and this is way more hands-on and personal than any of the options youd thought of. He lifts the waistband up and over to account for your dick, half-heartedly jutting out. Next to his hands it looks pathetic.

Your insides churn with embarrassment, and you're left to stew in it, staring up at the ceiling, exposed, as Bro drops your boxers onto the floor, and then... leans over to get something from under the futon?

He straightens up with with something: a small clear container with a purple label, appearing empty for a second before you see it's filled with transparent gel. Lube. Of course.

But. "You're not taking off your boxers?" you ask.

"Wouldn't do to get hasty," he drawls, fucking cheating, and nudges your legs apart. Keeping yourself from clamping your legs together takes a heroic effort. You breathe out evenly and try to relax.

He gives you an appraising look. "You look good like this," he says. It's meaningless or you shouldn't care.

Shouldn't, on some level, want to spread your legs more, see if that's what he appreciates.

That can't be right so you don't, instead straining your neck to watch Bro squirt lube onto his fingers. You're not sure if it's a not much or a lot, but that'd mean that either it's going to hurt or that he expects it to. You've never had your own fingers in there, for chrissake, and his are disproportionate to your body.

But you're gonna go mental like this. It's not like you can see your own asshole. You lay your head back. Try to relax.

Bro kneels over you, one hand on the futon and the other...

His fingers touch against you and youre not sure what to feel. Disgust? He swirls lube around the puckered skin and all you can say is that it's weird. Your stomach flips with apprehension and it's hard to pick out anything else.

He presses a finger _against_ , more firmly, and you tense. He stops.

"Relax," he says.

Words are cheap, but he lets up, instead continuing to run his fingers around the rim. You fix your eyes on a meaningless point on his shoulder. The stomach-turning anticipation fades, and you try not to squirm- you guess there are more nerves there than you'd have thought. Like your tongue.

He varies the pressure, more then less then more and when a finger slips in you gasp and tighten up in shock.

He waits, patient, while you calm yourself back down. It doesn't hurt like you thought it would. It's a slight stretching feeling and a sort of muted internal presence.

It's not bad, and the second finger goes in as easy as the first. When you relax around that, too, he starts working them in and out of you, sometimes curling his fingers slightly to stroke at your insides. you can feel yourself gradually open up, his fingers sinking deeper and deeper, past the second knuckle.

He keeps them pressed inside, and you feel the internal pressure shifting around probingly. You get what comes next. You've been on the internet, you know a prostate is. That just elucidates shit-all about what it's actually like. It's not crazy that you're on edge.

When his fingers do brush against it it doesn't set off fireworks. It's stranger than that, unsettling, like he's poking at your guts. Fingerpads tracing circles in your viscera.

Your hips roll involuntarily, trying to dislodge the intrusion, but it doesn't work like that. You exhale slowly, uncomfortable.

Maybe it's better this way. If there's anything you've practiced in your time on planet earth it's stoicism.

You think you've got a handle on it. You can adjust.

The thought makes it bearable, more and more so as he keeps at it, until suddenly it's not something you have to bear at all. It's foreign and invasive, still, but _good_ , a heat you hadn't noticed before building in your groin.

Maybe it wasn't you being stoic at all, just your body getting used to a new sensation.

He curls his fingers and you let out a helpless moan. Useless. Useless. Your dick is getting hard as he watches.

The heat builds and builds, and you squirm, fists clenching in sheets. You start to feel sweaty and feverish. You've never been this hard. You want to touch yourself, and yet.

Any initiative you made before were calculated, no matter how badly. If you touch yourself now, not to be convincing but just because it feels good, then what weight do any of your choices have? What kind of person is it that can't resist jerking off with his brother's fingers in his ass?

Weak, and _complicit_ , is what. Asking for it.

You don't touch yourself even as your breath grows ragged from the effort.

You feel drawn taut, you're burning up. Minutes or an eternity pass of Bro working you over and orgasm breaks over you, hard and fast like a bowstring snapping, yelling convulsing seeing white, heavy waves pulsing through your body.

Feeling you untensing, Bro pulls his fingers out, but you don't move. Just lying there, looking up at the ceiling with your eyes half-shut feels fine. Good, even.

It fades. Gradually you start caring that you're lying exposed. You open your eyes properly and orient yourself.

He's contemplating your stomach, and you lift your head to see what he's looking at. Across your belly are a few splatters of thick, clear liquid. Oh.

"It, uh, doesn't do more than that," you explain, propping yourself up on your elbows. It's not like he never went through puberty; he should know what's what, therefore he does, and it'd be stupid of you to feel subpar about it.

He nods and you finally take a good look at him. He's sitting cross-legged with his boxers-briefs on, looking unaffected at first glance but you can see the hard outline of his dick. His eyes rake over you.

"Ah, fuck. Did you want to... " Did he want to fuck you? Stupid question. "Do you want to do something about that." _With me_ , you don't have to say.

With how paralyzed you've been over all this, you're kind of surprised you managed to say that much. But you dug this hole for yourself, and the only way through is to keep digging. Could be that it's deep enough now that the freaked-out parts of you got the memo.

Of course- he did already see you jizz all over yourself and it doesn't get much lower than that. It makes sense that you'd be less shy.

...That should bug you more. Maybe it's the afterglow. Which also should bug you.

But Bro's talking, so you pay attention to that instead.

"I've wanted to fuck you," he says mildly, "for years." Pause. "A bit longer wasn't nothing."

Years? Fucking years. You never knew. Nothing's springing to mind as proof- you never had a chance of knowing, that's how discreet he was. So this situation really did happen only because of your fuck-ups, and now he's going to...

You're going to let him fuck you?

You give it a second, but there's no wise inner voice. Just you.

You nod at him, and look thoughtful, like you're thinking about what he said. It's a lot easier than pretending to be enthusiastic.

He undresses. His dick looks huge, long and thick and bobbing heavily. Flushed with blood.

You've seen Bro in his underwear before, and it's not like they cover a whole damn lot, but you never put two and two together and got dick. A hole in your mental map, like someone erased and kept erasing 'til the canvas wore out. It almost doesn't feel like it's really his. Something copy-pasted from a porno.

"Go ahead," he says indulgently, seeing you stare.

You catalogue it with your hands. It makes it easier, just looking at it and not him. It's curved slightly and a bit longer than the length of your hand. Warm to the touch. If you squeeze it lightly you can feel blood throbbing.

He gives you the lube wordlessly. You hesitate, then squeeze some onto your hands and start smearing it around the shaft. Simple and methodical work like painting a fence.

Precum beads on the tip, and you absent-mindedly swipe your thumb over it.

Bro exhales heavily. You startle, glancing up at him for a moment in surprise, reverie broken. It's not like you forgot this'd actually affect him, but.

Experimentally, you trace a thumb under the head head. His hips cant into it, ever so slightly.  
Having that kind of power over him is...

You unhand him. "You should fuck me now. You should-" and Bro interrupts your stupid babbling with a hard kiss. You barely remember how you're supposed to return it by the time it's over. He pushes you down onto your back, looming over you on all-fours. It's...

"Uh," you begin.

He waits for you to finish what are you supposed to say? You don't want any of this but you especially don't want to be face-to-face with him while he's- fucking you. You don't want to constantly wonder if your reactions are the right ones.

You end up wiggling yourself onto your front without speaking.

There's a pause- thoughtful? He probably think you're into a certain type of thing. Weight shifts on the futon. His hands touch your legs suggestively so you spread them.

He pushes a pillow under your hips, lifting your ass obscenely.

It's... ok. You're okay. It's less nerve-wracking than before getting fingered. You don't even have to see it happen. Cheek flat against the mattress, all you see is the end of the living room. Television, speakers, a stray issue of GameBro. Ordinary stuff. None of what's happening now fits Dave Strider's Life, so if you squint it's sort of like it's happening to someone else.

One of his hands holds your hips steady as he positions himself. There's a moment of his dick just touching against you but you tell yourself it's fine, it's just like before. Then he pushes in, and in, and you grit your teeth because it's so _much_. Of course you knew before it'd be thicker than just two fingers around but you still struggle to remember you have to relax.

He presses further in, with some difficulty- maybe your fault; you can't adapt fast enough. He starts rocking into you instead, a slow in and out motion, a little further each time. Still too much. Hurts. You hear yourself make some kind of stifled whine.

"Nnngf. Fuck. " He withdraws and you hear the slicking sound of lube.

You lay still, dick soft underneath you, waiting quietly for him to get on with it. You still don't feel panicky, just surreal. Everything looks closer and further away and hollow, like a movie set through a wide-angle lens. If you weren't looking out of your own eyes you'd swear this wasn't where you were.

He lays on top of you. He's careful and slow and it's- fine. It's mostly the feeling of being filled up.

There's a delirious feeling, like if this is fine then anything's fine and there's no difference between what you want and what the outside world wants. And if there's no difference now then there's no reason to think there was before, and- you're fake, or- "you're" fake, there never was a "you"-

You feel like you're dissolving.

"Bro," you mumble into the mattress, disoriented.

"Bro," you try again, and you can't tell him to stop but it feels like you're shrinking or falling in your own head, like if something doesn't change you're going to disappear. "Please- more-"

"Fuck, Dave," he growls, and thrusts into you roughly, a jarring motion that makes you choke. Then again, and again, slamming into you over and over.

Brutal and too much. It feels real, grounding in a way gentleness wasn't. This is the way things you don't want should feel. It's relief.

He must think you're some kind of masochist. Hell, maybe this does count as being some kind of masochist, but it shouldn't matter. He only wanted this if you wanted it and you still tricked him into it for your own selfish reasons. If it hurts it's _fair_.

His weight presses you into the sheets, sweaty, and you grit your teeth and endure the harsh pace. If it's not about you or what you're feeling it's good and you can finally do something right.  
  
And-

And you're hard. Somewhere in it being too much it starts to feel like _not enough_ , pain ebbing into a pleasant ache. More than pleasant. Overfull and needing more.

Not penance, just you getting off on your brother's dick up your ass.

You hate this.

"Please, please, please," you hear yourself repeat. Wanting more and, desperately, for it to be over. You want to get off, you want to grind into the pillow and you want to push yourself back onto Bro's cock and you can't do both because the angle is all wrong.

You abandon the former for the latter, angling your hips better, moving in sync with him. It's so good. Your eyes are half-open but looking at nothing.

Bro pauses to adjust himself and you remember to hate yourself for the needy sound you make.

You forget just as quickly. He fucks you into the mattress, each thrust forcing a whimper from your throat. You're panting, overheating. Getting fucked by your brother and feeling better than for weeks, because you're not thinking, just feeling.

He presses open-mouthed kisses against your shoulder and neck and you moan wantonly. You're getting close when he curses and pins you tight with his weight, shuddering with his cock forced deep inside you. He bites your shoulder hard but the pain is eclipsed by the fact that he's not moving when you need more. He pulls out and you almost cry.

He drags you onto his lap, grabbing your dick and jerking you off roughly. A few sharp strokes is all it takes to push you over the edge and you cum hard, staticky-hot, sobbing.

Bro cradles you as you come down. Your breathing evens out, your heart rate slows, and you start to remember how tired you are.

He must sense your brain coming back online because he eases you off his lap so you're laying on your side on the bed. You hadn't even noticed you were drooling when Bro was fucking you but there's drool around your mouth. You raise a heavy arm to wipe at your face, clumsy.

He's in the kitchen. You hear running water and the tearing sound of paper towels. You close your eyes. Your ass is faintly sticky with drying lube. It'd be messier if he hadn't shot his load inside you, you guess.

Part of you recognizes that that's disgusting. You're so tired though, hollow, and it's easier to just...

...

You almost drift off right then, but Bro's saying something. Asking if you want to clean yourself up. You make a vague affirmative noise but don't move.

He touches your side and you're forced awake, barely stop yourself from stiffening up, but all he does is nudge you onto your back, a mass of damp paper towel in his hand. He wipes off your belly with a part of it. Then lower- your dick- but only briefly.

He tells you to turn over, so you turn over, letting him finish the cursory wipe-down. It's getting harder to hold onto the hollow feeling.

He goes to throw out the paper towels and you turn back onto your side. Weren't you half-asleep a second ago? You'd like that. You feel tired still but too present. You want to go back to your own room but the thought of navigating a conversation makes your guts feel heavy. Better to pretend you're still only borderline conscious.

The futon dips as he lies down next to you, throwing the blanket over you both. He wraps an arm around you. Nothing makes sense so your thoughts go nowhere.

At length you turn to face him. He's a light sleeper. Amber-orange eyes look down at you, half-lidded, lazy like only apex predators can afford to be. There's a long moment where you just look at each other, but he says nothing, and you remember what you were doing. You scoot close, tangling your legs together, and lay your head against his chest.

You sleep.


End file.
